


Water is Another Matter

by AuditoryCheesecake



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoribull - Freeform, Dehydration, Dorian Makes A Mistake, First Kiss, It Works Out Okay, Kinda Sicfic, M/M, The Hissing Wastes, Worried Bull, kinda hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 12:18:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10513626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuditoryCheesecake/pseuds/AuditoryCheesecake
Summary: Behind Dorian, Cadash kicks at an empty chest. The squealing of its hinges grates at his nerves, making him wince. His mouth feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton and scraped with sandpaper.He doesn’t stagger, but when Bull catches his arm, it’s steadying.Ice is not Dorian's favored weapon, and the desert is a bad place to be relying on water.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [Water](https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/water/) by Pablo Neruda
> 
> Beta'd by [Uniqueinalltheworld](http://archiveofourown.org/users/uniqueinalltheworld/pseuds/uniqueinalltheworld) <3 <3

The Hissing Wastes are dry as bone. The sun is blistering hot, and at night the moon looms over sand that seems to suck the moisture out through the soles of Dorian’s boots.

They’re hunting red Templars, and Dwarven ruins, and Dorian has finally gotten a chance to perfect his ice magic. Not much of a choice, really, when fire seems more like part of the climate than a weapon.

It is difficult. Especially here, where it’s so hard to pull water out of the parched air. It’s easy in a forest or a swamp, where everything is green and drenched, but in the Waste, a single spike of ice leaves his lips chapped.

They dispatch one of the hulking monstrosities that serve Corypheus, and its attendant Templars, and Dorian feels near to collapse. His _nose_ hurts, every inhale scraping dry air over tender skin.

He drinks the last of his water in a hasty gulp. It does nothing to quench his thirst.

Sera pokes at the beast’s lyrium carcass with the end of her bow, and makes a noise of disgust. She pokes it again, harder. Bull uncaps his own water, and Dorian watches the line of his throat as he tips his head back and drinks. He looks back, brow furrowed.

Behind Dorian, Cadash kicks at an empty chest. The squealing of its hinges grates at his nerves, making him wince. His mouth feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton and scraped with sandpaper.

He doesn’t stagger, but when Bull catches his arm, it’s steadying.

“You all right, fancy-britches? Too much sand in your eyes?” Sera hovers as Dorian gathers his determination for the trek. His head is pounding, and he wants to shake it to clear the starbursts from his vision, but he wagers that won’t actually help.

“And other places.” He manages a sniff of disdain. “I’m just a bit parched is all. Nothing a mouthful of water and a healing potion won’t put right. Pity we didn’t think to bring wine.”

Sera snickers, and turns back to the fallen behemoth.

“Boss,” the Bull says, “we should go back to camp.”

He grips Dorian’s shoulder-- hand warm and slightly tacky with the blood of a fallen Templar-- and holds him up. If he doesn’t move, perhaps Dorian can maintain the illusion that he stands on his own. His legs feel like seaweed. _Dry_ seaweed, brittle and weak.

Cadash scowls. She’s leery of the shifting sands of the Waste, angry at the proliferation of Dwarven ruins and how many questions they raise and how few they answer. She’s worried about water, sure that the barrels shipped from the oasis won’t sustain them.

“I’m out of bees,” Sera adds. She glances over her shoulder at Dorian, trying to look casual. Maker, if she’s worried, then he must look a sight.

Cadash mutters. The night is less than half-done. There are still hours left and miles of empty sand to map. She looks at the distant mountains, then the much-closer light of the Inquisition camp, and finally at her bedraggled team.

“If I stay out here and check for--”

Bull cuts her off. “Your canteen’s light too, Boss. We all need a break.”

She shakes her head again, but her gaze lingers on Dorian. He hates knowing that he’s the weak link, but the prospect of a drink trumps dignity.

“I agree with the Bull,” he says.

“Well, shit. If you two agree on something, then I should go along with it just to encourage you.” She’s gruff as ever, but Dorian thinks it’s a joke.

“Dorian needs to see the camp healer,” Bull says.

Cadash’s brow lowers and she turns to Dorian. “You look like shit, but I thought it was just because you forgot your makeup. You need a potion?”

“Yeah,” Bull says, at the same time that Dorian says, “healing potions treat the symptoms of dehydration in the short term, but the only real solution is rest and water.”

“So, camp.”

“Yeah,” Bull says, more emphatically.

“I can walk to camp,” He insists. “But not much farther.”

“Right.” Cadash rubs her hand over her face. “Tell me sooner next time. How are you supposed to help me kill Corypheus if you’re fainting in deserts and--”

“An amateur mistake,” Dorian agrees. “I won’t repeat it.”

“See that you don’t. Half-dead is an awful look for you,” she tells him. “And you’re scaring Bull.”

“Boss, you and Sera go on ahead. I’ll get Dorian back to camp,” Bull interjects before Dorian can parse her meaning.

Cadash tosses a bottle to Bull and levels a last look at Dorian. “I’m sending scouts out after you when I get to camp,” she threatens, and takes off across the sands at a steady jog. Sera scrambles to keep up.

“Right.” A waterskin is thrust into Dorian’s hands, open. He lifts it to his chapped lips.

The water is tepid and tastes of leather, but Dorian’s sure there’s no drink sweeter in Thedas or the Maker’s Golden City.

Bull takes it back when it’s empty. Dorian frowns at him. “Did I just drink the last of your water?” he demands.

“You needed it,” Bull says easily. “And I’ve got an extra.” His hand is still on Dorian’s shoulder, solid and steady. 

“Clever,” Dorian admits. “Is it a secret Ben-hassrath survival technique?”

“Pretty sure it’s common sense when you’re in a desert.”

Dorian turns his nose up. “Rude.”

“I’m trying to keep you on your feet, Vint. The Boss is right when she says you look like shit.”

“You needn’t fuss,” Dorian tells him, “I’ve had worse hangovers.” 

He starts off after Sera and Cadash, fully intending to leave Bull behind. He doesn’t move very quickly, though.

“This isn’t a hangover,” Bull says seriously. He matches Dorian’s pace, step for halting step. “This is a desert, and you’re casting spells that need water but not _drinking_ any.”

“Careful, I’ll start to think you’re worried about me.”

Bull mutters under his breath in Qunlat. 

Dorian concentrates on making his feet move.

“I _am_ worried,” Bull says at last. “What’re you always saying? You’re too pretty to die?”

“An abysmal imitation of my accent,” Dorian says. “And I’m not about to _die_.”

“You’re not, because you’re going to drink this potion, and then more water.” He puts Cadash’s vile tonic in Dorian’s hands and waits with an expectant air.

Dorian huffs, but when Bull doesn’t budge, he drinks it. It earns him a satisfied nod.

Hesitantly, Dorian tries again. “Bull, you shouldn’t--”

“I should.” His voice is flat.

There’s not much arguing with that tone. Dorian’s seen it send drunk Chargers to their beds and surly Inquisitors to the healer. Often, it puts Dorian in mind of his own bed, but he finds it unlikely that the Iron Bull’s thoughts travel the same paths at the moment.

No, he’s not alone in the desert with Bull the flirt, who laughs at his jokes and leans too close when they sit by the fire. It’s Bull the mother hen, and Dorian’s still too woozy to properly appreciate the attention.

“Ready to move on?” Bull asks when he’s watched Dorian swallow half the potion.

They move slowly. Bull seems liable to scoop Dorian up in his arms if he so much as stumbles, so Dorian does his best not to. They pause often, and Bull has him alternate sips of water and healing potion.

He makes it most of the way up the first sand dune before them, and Bull helps him scramble the last few steps. From the top, he can see the lights of the camp, but staring at how far they have left to go saps the energy from his muscles like wine running out of a cracked jug.

“Have you ever heard the story of the Magister who built himself a pair of magical wings? Ended horribly, but I’d give my left arm for a pair right now.”

Bull looks down at him appraisingly. “Feeling better?”

“I’m cold, and my mouth tastes like a corpse, and I’ve got sand in my mostache.”

“Better, then, if you’re complaining,” Bull says with satisfaction.

“Better,” Dorian agrees reluctantly. 

He doesn’t realize he’s still gripping Bull’s hand for balance until it’s gone. He’s left holding the waterskin, again.

Dorian drinks, slowly. Bull watches him do it, and as much as Dorian would like to think it’s just because he’s pretty, he’s sure it’s not. 

“Don’t lecture me,” he snaps, when Bull’s attention grows too heavy.

“About what?” Bull’s face betrays the mildness of his tone. “About overextending yourself to the point of exhaustion? About not speaking up when you should have asked for a break? Or carrying extra lyrium potions but no extra water? We’re in a _desert_ , Dorian--”

“Exactly.” Dorian caps the waterskin and hands it back to Bull, with perhaps more force than he needs to. “I’m sure our Lady Inquisitor will have plenty to say as well.”

Bull gives it back again. “Drink more.”

Dorian does, grudgingly. “I’m dehydrated, not a child.”

“Don’t forget you’ve strained your wrist, you’re low on magic juice, and you’re overtired.”

“Overtired!” Dorian sputters, trying to come up with a response that won’t prove Bull right through sheer petulance. “How did you know about my wrist?”

Bull shrugs, self-satisfied. “I know you.”

“Well I know you,” Dorian counters, “and _your_ knee hurts.”

“A blind nug could tell you that.” 

“Hardly.” He looks up at Bull’s face. “And a blind nug couldn’t offer magical assistance. I give excellent massages.”

“Don’t joke about this.” Still that steel in his voice. “I know what lyrium exhaustion looks like. And with dehydration? Dorian, I--” He sighs, and though Dorian waits expectantly, he doesn’t finish the thought. Instead, he taps the waterskin in Dorian’s hands. “Drink more.”

“My hands are much prettier than a nug’s,” Dorian tells him.

“The water, Dorian.”

“My wrist hurts, you said so yourself.”

“ _Please_ drink the water, Dorian?” Bull tries.

Dorian does, and maintains a decent victorious smirk throughout.

He glances at Bull, and catches the tail end of true worry on his face it sinks into something more neutral.

“So severe,” Dorian comments, licking a drop of water from his lips. Bull’s eye follows the movement. 

Bull keeps looking at him, at the waterskin in his hand, at the dried blood on his robes, at whatever he sees on Dorian’s face. “I’m trying not to fuss.”

“And doing a terrible job of it.”

“Apparently.” Bull shrugs, face shuttering further. “I’ll leave you alone once we’re in camp.”

“I doubt that,” Dorian says archly.

Bull stares at him for a long minute, then he digs his foot into the sand and turns his face in the direction of camp. “We should go.”

“Bull.” Dorian puts a hand on his arm, trying to be comforting. “You’re an excellent nursemaid. I’ll be fine.”

Bull takes Dorian’s hand off his arm, and for a moment Dorian’s sure he’s crossed some unspoken line. Bull doesn’t let go, though. He shifts his grip, the rough callouses on his palm sliding over Dorian’s skin.

He examines Dorian’s fingers. They’re scraped and cold, a little stiff. His skin is dry. Bull studies his hand like it holds a deep secret. He’s gentle as he turns Dorian’s palm toward the sky, careful of his aching wrist.

“Really.” Dorian steps closer, peers into Bull’s face. He doesn’t meet Dorian’s eyes, just keeps staring at his hand with a furrow between his brows. “How can I convince you not to worry?”

Now Bull looks at him. His smile is rueful. “Don’t think I can stop at this point, Vint.”

Dorian almost says “try”, but it sticks in his throat. Bull’s gaze is direct and open, totally lacking anything that could be turned into a joke. He feels like water caught behind a dam.

His throat is dry again, and he licks his lips. Bull’s eye flickers to his mouth, for just a moment. 

Dorian kisses him. 

It startles them both, but Bull pours himself into it in a heartbeat, pulling Dorian close. He goes eagerly, matching Bull breath for breath, shivering under his hands. Dorian’s swept away by the heat of him, the way it seems to seep into every corner, the way he--

Bull makes some sort of noise against his mouth, and Dorian feels his hands tighten. He grips the back of Bull’s neck with a sudden desperation. He drinks in the way Bull sighs against him, the way he presses them together, the way he focuses on nothing else but Dorian. It leaves him breathless and floating, holding onto Bull like an anchor. 

His pulse is racing when Bull pulls away, and it takes him along moment to find his voice.

“Well,” Dorian says. “Now you have sand in your beard.”

“Venak hol,” Bull sighs. He rubs his thumb across Dorian’s cheekbone. He smiles softly.

“What does that mean?” Dorian asks. “Indescribably beautiful and brilliant?”

“Brat,” Bull says. “More or less.”

“You’re rude.” Dorian kisses him again. Bull laughs into it, one arm wrapped around his waist and the other hand tilting his chin at the perfect angle. He lets himself be moved, imagines what this might be like later, when he isn’t blood-spattered and covered in sand.

“I’m fussing,” Bull corrects him. “Over you, by the way. I don’t know why you’re not pleased.”

Dorian smiles. “Maybe I am.”

Bull lifts Dorian’s face to kiss him again. “Next time, just knock on my door. None of this fainting into my arms business.”

“I never fainted,” Dorian protests.

“Swooned, maybe.” 

Dorian concedes the point, since that seems like the easiest way to make Bull kiss him again.


End file.
